My father had strong, golden arms. Taut forearms that expanded as they grasped a saw, or reefed in a halyard. Rounded shoulders that filled his tailor made suits as he kissed ** my mother goodbye at the bottom of the stairs at 7.20 every weekday morning. Large safe hands that grasped the bowl of his pipe in one hand and the steering wheel with the other as we sprinted from scenic lookout to scenic lookout on our annual two-week driving holiday. Biceps that could lift me effortlessly up onto his shoulders during a family bush walk. They were muscles honed from building a boat, hammering up the wooden frame, sanding back the fibreglass.
These were not arms built in the gym. They were built in the workshop and the garden, built from raising three children, from loving a wife, from the struggle of someone, so very much loved, who always had a slight air of discontent about him.
These were the arms that could lift me into the tumble dryer for the ultimate game of hide and seek.***; the hands that were sent, reluctantly, to discipline us; the arms that grasped the rudder, steering us safely through a storm while my mother vomited nervously off the side of the boat and I slept unknowingly below.
My dad is older now, and very much changed, smaller but no less diminished, less muscular but just as strong.
** Actually it was more a pash than a kiss, given with the force and passion of someone who might be leaving for nine months, not just nine hours.
*** We were a close but odd family. It wasn't unusual for my siblings to find me hidden in the most obscure of spots. None-the-less I think we had a relationship with our father that was envied by the other children. In a time where women did the child rearing and men 'brought home the bacon', my friends would line up to be tickled by him (which you could do then, but wouldn't dare do now).
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